


These Old Ropes

by gigantic



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Discovery, Frottage, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-08 08:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: There are no secrets between brothers. There are especially no secrets between brothers who can do what Ryan and Dylan can.





	These Old Ropes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stonesnuggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy, stonesnuggler!
> 
> Also, the Dylan/Mikey and Dylan/Alex/Lyndsey are all background pairings, discussed but never really “on screen.”

Dylan falls into Ryan’s lap one day. Sure, figuratively. One day Ryan is an only child and then the next he remembers his parents introducing him to his baby brother. Of course there’s that. It happens literally too, though, as in Dylan literally falls through the ceiling and into Ryan’s lap on the couch when he’s 13 years old.

First of all, it hurts. Second of all, “What the fuck?!” 

“Hey! Language,” their dad calls from the kitchen.

Dylan topples onto the floor and pops back to his feet. “Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god,” he’s babbling, pawing at his torso and arms. At least he seems as surprised as Ryan is over him suddenly being in the living room. 

Ryan looks to the ceiling and down, then up again. The plaster is completely intact. He can’t stop examining the place where a giant hole should be.

“How am I—what!” Dylan says. He’s still frantically surveying his body.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, still reeling.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

Ryan shakes himself out of his stupor and touches Dylan’s shoulders. “Look at me,” he says. “Does anything hurt?”

Dylan shakes his head. “No. No, no, I’m—I don’t know what happened. I was just sitting on my bed.”

“Okay.” Ryan feels down his arms and over his chest, checking his ribs, but Dylan doesn’t hiss or flinch, so he assumes nothing has been pulled or broken. “Good. Okay. MOM!”

***

Their parents don’t believe them. They don’t get mad, but they assume it’s some kind of prank, and eventually Ryan gives up, because it’s not like Dylan can explain things any better. 

Two weeks later, Ryan’s driving to the movies with Matt and suddenly Dylan appears in the back seat, rocking the car as he plops down. Ryan swerves and has to cut right to avoid colliding with another car. Matt, for his part, screams in the front passenger seat.

That sets Dylan off too, but his holler is broken up by a coughing fit. It just drives home that Dylan is supposed to be in bed sick where they left him. 

“What are you _doing_?” Ryan asks, looking at the rearview mirror. 

“I don’t know!” Dylan says. 

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“He appeared out of nowhere!” Matt shouts, pretty unhelpfully since Ryan is trying not to think about that while he’s still navigating traffic. 

“Jesus, Dylan.” Ryan pulls to the shoulder and puches the hazard lights. Dylan looks just like he had back at home, now that Ryan has a chance to turn around and get a real look at him. He’s in his t-shirt and sleep pants. His nose is red, and he has a throw blanket tangled around his legs. In the face of all that, there’s really no way to convince himself that Dylan just snuck into the car while they were leaving.

“How are you here?” Matt asks. His eyes are wide open, shocked. 

“I don’t _know_.” Dylan’s eyes are getting red, and he looks out at the cars zipping by like it’s belatedly registering that they’re on the highway. “I could’ve—oh, god.”

“Calm down,” Ryan says. “You’re okay. We pulled over.” 

“I was at home.” Dylan brings his hands to his face, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“What were you doing?”

Dylan shakes his head. “Nothing, I was. The TV was on, and I thought about how much it sucked that I wasn’t going with you guys, and then,” he says and stops to cough again.

Ryan sighs. “We gotta get you home.”

“You wanted to be here, and then you were?” Matt asks. 

Somehow that just makes Dylan’s expression twist. “What’s wrong with me?” 

“Hey, don’t think like that. Let’s just take you back to the house,” Ryan says and turns around to start gauging when to pull back into traffic. “Matty, stop freaking him out.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Matt protests. “What about the movie?”

“We’ll go another time.”

“I’m sorry,” Dylan says and flops down out of sight. Ryan glances over his shoulder, but Dylan hasn’t disappeared again. He’s only curling up. 

Ryan exhales. “Don’t worry about it. Alright. Going home.”

***

A week later, Dylan pops up in the middle of Ryan buying groceries for their parents on his way home from training. A week after that, Ryan’s playing video games in his room when Dylan suddenly flops down next to him on the bed without opening a door to get in. It doesn’t stop. They try counting the days between each incident. No pattern. Sometimes Matt is around and sometimes he isn’t. Their parents never see it.

“It’s you,” Matt says to Ryan, popping a grape in his mouth during their brothers meeting about the dilemma. “Right? You’re always there.”

Ryan frowns. “I’m not doing anything.” 

“Well, how do you know?”

“I just do.” Ryan has no idea, but he thinks he’d at least be able to feel something if he was the one somehow pulling Dylan to him all the time. A buzz in his head. A tingling sensation. Something.

“It can’t be me,” Dylan says. “I mean, not like that. Wouldn’t I be able to control it?” He huffs and crosses his arms. “Yesterday I tried wishing I was at the park, nothing. I pictured it. Nada.”

Matt tilts his chin up thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s because you’re bad at it.”

“Shut up,” Dylan says. He reaches across the couch to thwap Matt’s thigh while Matt snickers like a maniac. 

Ryan eventually pushes Dylan back to his side, saying, “Okay, okay. Relax.” This isn’t getting them anywhere. He looks Dylan over for a moment and frowns. “At least it doesn’t hurt, right?” 

Dylan shakes his head. “I told you, I only feel kind of fuzzy after. Like cotton in my head.” He frowns. “But what if I blink out and reappear right over a cliff or something?”

“That won’t happen,” Ryan says.

Matt shifts around to see Dylan better. “What if you blink out and reappear in the bathroom while Ryan’s on the toilet?” 

“God, shut _up_ ,” Dylan says, launching himself across Ryan to get to Matt again.

***

Dylan never shows up in the bathroom. He never pops up anywhere dangerous, though one time he appears while Ryan is making out with a girl at a party, and Ryan nearly chokes on her tongue when Dylan says his name.

“Dyls, you can’t just make a cameo like that,” Ryan hisses as he rushes them out of the house.

“God, I’m sorry!” Dylan struggles and plants his feet once they’re outside. “I can walk, you know.”

“What were you doing?”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“I thought you and Mikey were having a video games sleepover.”

“He had to go home.” Dylan’s still wearing what Ryan saw him in earlier, but he’s missing shoes. Ryan hopes no one inside caught that detail. “You know I can’t control this.”

“You have to be doing something.” Ryan doesn’t mean to be so annoyed, but he’s pretty sure that girl, Eliza, thinks he’s a complete freak now for biting her and then dashing from the room. And it’s not like Ryan can say, hey, sorry, he was trying to get his little brother out of sight before she realized he appeared out of thin air. “Wait,” Ryan says. “Why did Mikey have to go? Is he okay?”

Dylan immediately turns away, hunching in on himself like he’s cold. It’s the middle of summer. He can’t be that chilly, even without a jacket at night. 

“Where’s the car?” he asks. “Let’s go home. The ground is damp. It’s nasty.” 

“Dyls.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He stalks off in a random direction, blindly forging ahead to nowhere. 

Ryan calls out, “Hey! I’m parked the other way.” He digs into his pocket and presses the key to get the headlights to flash, alarm beeping. Dylan looks around and notices it at the end of the street, changing course. 

He doesn’t say anything else. Dylan makes a beeline for the car and gets into the passenger seat without a word. Ryan takes his time getting to the car, glancing back toward the party and mourning what should have been his very normal evening. He gets in and closes the door, turning on the ignition so he can get the heat going on low. 

“Is Mikey okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Then what happened?”

“Can you set the heat so it’s going to my feet?” Dylan asks, reaching out for the dial himself. 

Ryan beats him to it, modifying the settings. “You can’t change the subject.”

“Nothing happened.”

“It could be a clue,” Ryan says. “Come on, you show up and ruin my night—”

“I kissed him, alright?” Dylan snaps. “Does that help? No, I don’t think so.” 

Ryan’s stunned. He sits back in his seat and stares out at a streetlight and the parked car in front of them. Blinking and clearing his throat doesn’t help any of that feel less overwhelming, so he tries saying, “Whoa.”

“Whatever.” Dylan grabs at his seatbelt roughly and pulls it across his chest. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ryan puts the car in drive and starts in the direction of home. Halfway there, he hangs a left and heads away again.

“Where are you going?” Dylan asks, confused.

“I’m hungry,” Ryan says. He isn’t really, and the thought hadn’t occurred to him before it came out of his mouth, but it gives him a smaller list of possible destinations. 

He drives for another 10 minutes and stops at a McDonald’s of all places. Like they haven’t passed three on the way to this one. Ryan takes them through the drive-through. He orders and doesn’t ask what Dylan wants but leaves space for him to speak.

Dylan sighs and says, “And a number four combo too, please,” speaking past Ryan. 

Instead of pointing them towards home, Ryan parks in the lot and leaves the car running. Dylan digs through the bag to dole out their food. Ryan manages to get through a couple minutes of silent eating before he says, “So, Mikey. What, uh, what did he do?”

“I told you. He went home.”

“Was he mad?” Ryan asks, feeling something hot coil in him just contemplating that Mikey might’ve blown up at Dylan. He doesn’t seem like the type, but—

“I don’t think so,” Dylan says, quiet and pensive, but then he groans. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Ryan reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’ll probably get over it,” he says. “And, you know, it’s okay if you like him. If you like, uh.”

Dylan’s eyes shift back and forth, panicked. “I was just trying something.”

“Dyl, I promise. It’s fine—”

“Oh, my god.”

“—plenty of people like other guys. It’s not—”

“Please stop talking.”

“—a big deal.”

“ _Stop_.”

“Alright.” Ryan holds his hands up, surrendering. He’s not trying to freak Dylan out; he’s just saying. Ryan eats a few fries, thinking it over. “Can I say one more thing?” he asks. 

Dylan side-eyes him but says, “Fine.”

“I’ve got your back.” Ryan shrugs. “I mean. Whatever happens.”

Before Dylan answers, he takes a huge sip from his soda, looking away. When he sets it down in the cupholder again, he says, “Thanks,” and coughs. He scoots sideways and leans over until he can put his head on Ryan’s shoulder.

Ryan has to maneuver to get an arm around Dylan in a half-hug. He tucks his face against Dylan’s hair for a moment, basking in an involuntary swell of protectiveness. There might be a small rush of pride mixed in with it. 

“Sorry for ruining your night,” Dylan mumbles.

“You didn’t,” Ryan says. “Sorry I was an ass back there.” True, Ryan isn’t making out with a hot girl, but this isn’t bad either. He likes hanging out with Dylan. 

“Come on, eat. Cold fries are gross.” 

***

Luckily, two days later Dylan plops down right in the driveway while Ryan’s taking out the trash, a smile on his face. It changes to confusion after a second, his head spinning back and forth as he gets his bearings. “Hi!” he says and looks stricken. “I’ve gotta go.” 

“Wait,” Ryan says, but his grip slides right off as Dylan brushes past him. “What’s going on?”

“Mikey’s still in his basement,” Dylan calls back. “I’m supposed to be in the bathroom!” 

“Dylan! What are you talking about?”

Dylan practically skids to a stop. His smile is back when he looks at Ryan and says, “He kissed me!” then zips off almost as quickly as he came. 

Ryan stands there holding a trash bag in his hand for several seconds, processing. Well. Zapping home in the middle of something like that seems stressful. At least it’s good news.

***

The trend holds: sometimes Matt is around. Sometimes he isn’t. Mom and Dad never see it. They don’t get answers but they get used to it, and that’s the best Ryan can ask for when the hockey season looms right around the corner. He has enough to worry about now that his draft year is here.

Dylan seems happy with Mikey. They act exactly the way they always have, except sometimes Ryan sees them holding hands when he goes into the living room while they watch movies.

The end of summer is pretty good, all told.

***

The whole Mom and Dad not knowing thing stops being true the night Ryan finds himself sitting at the dining room table in almost full hockey gear, catching his breath. He’s in the locker during intermission, and then he’s back at his parents’ house. Their dad yells while Matt says, “I knew it! I knew it was something to do with you! Told you.”

“I’m in the middle of a _game_ ,” Ryan says. He has to be back on the ice in seven minutes.

Dylan has his hand over his mouth, eyes as wide as saucers. Matt keeps saying, “I told you.”

“Told who what?” their mother asks. She snaps her fingers. “Hey! Hey, sit down, Matt.”

“Dylan wished for it! ‘I wish Ryan was here too.’ He said that, and—hello.” Matt gestures at Ryan with both arms. 

Ryan stands up, leaning over the table as he says, “Put me back.”

“I don’t know what I did.”

“Dylan, I have to play.” Ryan presses toward him so frantically that the table moves and their dad starts making noises again.

“Alright, alright. Cool it a little bit.”

Ryan drops down into his chair with a clatter and thud. He tries to take a breath but says, “Please. Just undo it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Just try!”

Dylan grunts, frustrated, but he squeezes his eyes shut and seems to make an effort. Everyone quiets. Their parents are shocked and Matt just looks invested, clasping his hands together like this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in front of him. 

“Dyl,” Ryan says softly, after a minute. 

“I’m doing my best.” He says it through gritted teeth.

Ryan sighs and glances at the clock on the stove. He needs to get back. “Dylan,” he says more sharply. They don’t have time for this.

“Don’t snap. You’re just going to upset him,” their mom says, the chaos of the moment not enough to deter her from keeping them in line during dinnertime.

Ryan is mid-eyeroll when that gives him an idea. “If you keep me here, we’ll lose,” he says in Dylan’s direction. 

“It’s not my fault,” Dylan says, irritation creeping into his voice. 

“Yes, it is. It’ll be your fault,” Ryan says. “The team needs me, and if they have to play down a man, it’ll be because you did this, and you won’t fix it.” He watches Dylan tighten his fist on the table. “Dylan.”

“I’m _trying_.”

“Try harder.”

“Don’t rush me.”

Ryan says, “If you don’t send me back, I won’t forgive you.”

“Ryan!” their dad says, but Ryan never gets to hear the follow-up, because he’s back in the arena. He has to awkwardly shuffle his way back to the locker room, but only one of his teammates seems to notice his clumsy entrance.

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Ryan says. He goes to put his jersey back on.

***

The upside is that Ryan plays in the third period, scores a goal, and his team wins the game handily. The downside is that three days later, Dylan still isn’t talking to him.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan texts for what feels like the hundredth time. “I was desperate.”

The rest of the family keeps him updated. Ryan has the displeasure of trying to explain it all to their parents. He says, “I think I figured it out, but Dyl won’t listen.”

“He’ll loosen up again eventually. He always does after you guys fight,” his mom says. She sighs. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Welcome to our world,” Ryan says, which at least makes her laugh.

She and Dad get Dylan checked out at the hospital, saying he hasn’t been feeling well. All the tests come back clean, and right after his dad texts Ryan that update, Ryan switches over to his messages with Dylan and sends, “Glad you’re healthy.”

To his surprise, Dylan replies a few minutes later. “Yeah, not sick. Just a freak.”

Ah, sulking. Whatever, Ryan will take Dylan being in need of sympathy if it means he’s getting responses again.

He tries typing out several follow-ups, all variations on things he’s already sent since the last incident. Finally, he writes, “Can I call you?”

He watches the text bubbles jump and pause. Jump and pause. 

“Ok.”

Ryan dials through and feels relief as soon as Dylan says, “Hey.”

“You’re not a freak.”

Dylan scoffs. “No one else has a better theory.”

“I do.” Ryan closes his eyes and thinks about the sensation that overtook him in the locker room. He’d felt it in his belly button, and then the world went hazy, sluggish and too fast at once. It had felt like it took forever and a single instant to leap through space.

“Yeah, right.” Dylan’s voice sounds really close to the phone, kind of muffled. Ryan can picture him balled on the couch and pouting into his cell’s receiver.

Ryan says, “I’m sorry I was mean the other day. It worked, but that sucked, I know.”

“You were a jerk. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know that, but my idea worked,” Ryan says. “It’s not an excuse, I just—you didn’t want me there anymore, and then I was gone. I had to try it.”

“What are you talking about?” Dylan asks, but his voice sounds clearer. 

Ryan has his attention. “I think Matty is right. Partially.”

“God, don’t tell him that.”

“Partially.” Ryan emphasizes, allowing himself a smile. “When you want to be around me, you show up. When you wanted me to be at the house, I was there all of a sudden. And then you didn’t want me there, because I was shitty to you, and I left. Instantly.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dylan says, but he’s making a thoughtful humming sound right behind it. Ryan can imagine his thinking face, the way his eyes flick up to the ceiling and kind of scan idly as he considers all angles. “The first time I fell in the living room. I could’ve easily walked downstairs.”

“You can’t control it,” Ryan says. 

“How come it doesn’t work on other stuff?” 

“I don’t know. Look, maybe I’m wrong, but at least this is something we can practice, right?”

Dylan makes a noncommittal noise, then says, “Alright. Then I want you here.” They both wait a beat, but Ryan’s still sitting in his bedroom at his billet’s house. Nothing about his surroundings has changed. Dylan sucks his teeth. “See?” 

“You have to mean it,” Ryan says, though he’s not sure Dylan didn’t. 

“I feel crazy. This isn’t gonna work,” Dylan complains. 

“Don’t get moody. Just.” Ryan searches for what to try next. “Why did you text me back finally?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You ignored me for days. Why now?”

“Because,” Dylan says and groans when Ryan prods him again, but he takes a breath and elaborates. “I’m glad I’m not sick, but it meant I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. I always call you when I don’t know something. You’re good at making stuff not seem like a huge deal.”

“Poor guy,” Ryan says lightly. “Want a hug?”

“I mean—kind of!” 

Chuckling, Ryan says, “Then come get one.”

Dylan scoffs and says, “Never mind,” but Ryan insists. 

“I’m serious.” He stretches out on his bed, idly picking at the comforter as he keeps Dylan’s voice pressed to his ear. “Close your eyes. Let’s figure this out.”

“It’s not gonna work.”

“Try.” 

Dylan protests more but eventually says, “Okay, okay I’m doing it.” 

Ryan lets his eyes drift shut as well. “Tell me what you want.”

“I wish I could just—hang out with you. I guess. Where you are.”

“You don’t want me to come to the house?”

Dylan waffles for a moment, then says, “Not really. Mom and Dad are saying nice stuff, but I can tell they’re worried. I’m worried. I don’t want this to even be a problem. It would be easier to come to you and get out of here. I don’t have any away games coming this week, so I can’t even look forward to that. But if I was with you, we could play video games or watch something, anything. Just not think about this.”

Ryan feels the bed dip next to him and turns his head slowly. Even having an idea of what he might see doesn’t fully prepare him for it. He goes from hearing Dylan’s voice in his ear on his right to the sound of him soft but full on his left. Ryan glances at his phone and sees that the call has dropped, but Dylan still has his eyes closed, talking. 

“Dyl,” he whispers, amazed. 

“If this did work, I could get away whenever I wanted and still be able to go to school and play,” Dylan’s saying. 

Ryan doesn’t raise his voice much more but again says, “Dyl. Open your eyes.” 

Dylan’s brow furrows, possibly registering the way Ryan’s voice sounds different now. Closer. He opens his eyes, momentarily unfocused. 

“Hey,” Ryan says and smiles. 

Dylan’s brain kicks in after a pause, and he looks around in every direction. He’s still holding his phone to his head for no reason and says, “Whoa, holy—” then disappears. 

***

At first Ryan thinks, Dylan can teleport. It seems like the simplest explanation. Dylan can start out one place and instantly be another. The problem is he can’t go just anywhere. They test it, and it never works. He’s never involuntary ended up somewhere that didn’t also include Ryan being there first. Basic teleportation also doesn’t explain why Dylan can make Ryan suddenly change locations either. 

“Guess you’re not a superhero,” Matt says during their weekend group call. 

“Ha ha,” Dylan says. “You’re not funny. I’ll teleport you to the zoo.”

Matt laughs at his own joke anyway. “You can’t! And Mom and Dad would make you bring me back.”

“I’ll tell them it only works one day. In but not out.”

Snorting, Matt says, “They already saw you put Ryan back. Ry, be careful, you’re a Dylan magnet. He might put you in the zoo when he’s mad. That he can do.” 

Magnet. That’s Ryan’s second theory, and it seems to fit more. Ryan sometimes feels akin to a yo-yo, simultaneously more aware of the distance between them and also the fact that it means nothing. Hundreds of miles can be erased in an instant and put back whenever they need, or whenever Dylan wants. 

Mostly Dylan wants someone to keep him company while he does homework or plays video games. It’s the same stuff he’s always wanted from Ryan.

They get better at it, working to figure out the limits. Greater distances seem to take more energy. It also helps if Dylan can picture where he’s going in more detail, down to the room, otherwise he might accidentally land on a random street corner in Sudbury and then Ryan has to figure out what landmark he imagined. Trial and error. It’s more fun once it’s less confusing.

It’s fun until the night that Ryan’s asleep at his billet’s in St. Catharines and the next he’s jolted awake by his body being sucked into the ether.

He’s spat out in the next instant. That isn’t the most jarring part. What’s worse is that he realizes Dylan’s crying.

“Sorry,” Dylan says, curled at the head of his bed and wiping his face. “Sorry, I tried not to.”

Ryan bolts upright to get closer to him. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is everyone safe?”

“Yeah, it’s not like that.” Dylan sniffs, taking in a big, ragged breath. “It’s stupid, it’s.” He pushes out all his breath. “Me and Mikey broke up.”

Ryan flops down and basks in relief for a moment, then he turns over on his stomach to frown at Dylan. “That’s not stupid. I’m sorry. Did you have a fight or something?”

Dylan shakes his head. “We just agreed, you know. With school and hockey. We’re busy.” He says it a little like he’s rehearsed the words but hasn’t managed to flatten out his feelings about them. “We’re gonna still be friends.”

Reaching out, Ryan curves a hand around Dylan’s ankle and holds on to reassure him. “That’s pretty good then, right? Not all bad.”

Even though he nods, a small sob escapes before Dylan can dam it. He swallows and wipes his face again, looking at Ryan with wet eyes. 

“Can you sleep here?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Ryan says and checks for a clock. It’s still not very late. He hadn't been dozing for long. They have all night. “Come to me.”

He pushes the blankets back with Dylan’s help. They haven’t had reason to tangle up together for a while, but getting comfortable still feels like second nature. It seems like Dylan’s picked up another inch every month lately, but he lies on his side and presses back as Ryan gets an arm around him as easily as always. 

Ryan hugs him tight and then loosens so they can settle. He kisses the back of Dylan’s neck once and noses the skin gently. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah. Thank you,” Dylan whispers, sniffing another time. It sounds drier now, though. “It just sucks still. You know?”

“Mhm. Been there.” Ryan tightens the hug again. “I’ve got you tonight, okay?”

Dylan finds Ryan’s hand and cards their fingers together at his belly. “‘Night, Ry.”

“Love you,” Ryan says. “Goodnight.”

***

Accidental pulls happen less and less. Ryan worries that maybe he’ll get annoyed eventually, or that Dylan will materialize while Ryan’s in the middle of something compromising, but Dylan becomes pretty consistent at texting to ask first. He learns to recognize the fine line between wanting Ryan around versus the actual physical sensation of sending either of their bodies hurtling through the atomosphere. In a way, it helps that hockey and school are only getting busier. Their free times of day tend to sync up more often than not. Ryan looks forward to quick chats with Dylan before bed most nights, anticipating the proximity and how it lulls him to sleep—including Dylan’s 14th birthday, including a quick trip between hotel floors the night before Ryan’s drafted, including Dylan going on a camping trip with a friend’s family and yanking Ryan out to a tent in the woods because he’s bored and can’t quite relax.

During the World Juniors in Alberta, Ryan thinks he’ll be too busy to have time to bring Dylan out, but Drouin’s wild energy reminds him so much of Dylan that he texts, “You should come see a game.”

“People are gonna wonder why I’m there,” Dylan replies, but Ryan mostly notices that the word “no” doesn’t make it into his response.

Ryan sneaks away from the team to head onto the concourse, borrowing a credential left sitting on one of the stalls. He finds the main entrance and tells Dylan to picture that. They’ve seen Rexall on TV enough that it’s probably the easiest way for Dylan not to end up on a random street corner in Edmonton.

“I’m here,” he texts and waits patiently. Dylan doesn’t appear in front of him, but eventually someone taps on his shoulder and asks, “Looking for somebody?”

Ryan’s grinning as he turns around. “There he is.” He hugs Dylan tight and slips the credential over his head. “Let’s get you inside.”

Quickly finding a place for him to watch the game without a ticket is difficult. Ryan worries about making it back to the locker room in time, but they find an empty seat, and Dylan insists he can bounce around on his own. 

“Just go play,” he tells Ryan. “I can always get back home if I need to bail.”

“Text me if you have to go. Okay?” Ryan asks.

“I promise.” Dylan smile widens. “Score for me.”

Ryan snorts but hugs him again and dashes back to where he’s supposed to be. He has to hustle to get all his gear on, but he makes it in time and heads out onto the ice with the team. Battling the US on New Year’s Eve is cool, but it’s even better to look up toward the section where Dylan’s sitting and know he’s probably watching. 

Ryan doesn’t score, but he gets an assist on Canada’s second goal to put them ahead 2-0. Canada eventually wins 3-2, and everyone on the team is buzzing with the rush of victory. Ryan checks his texts after he showers, and there’s one from Dylan that says, “Had to go in the 3rd. Proud of you.”

“Love you,” Ryan types and sends before he goes to celebrate with his teammates.

On Dylan’s 15th birthday, Ryan knows he’s hanging out with family and then his boyfriend. He texts, “Just come by after.”

“what if I’m busy after? ;)” Dylan sends back. 

“I don’t even wanna think about it.”

St. Catharines isn’t that far. Ryan could drive home, but he has an early practice. The rest of the family he can see in a few days, and the one whose birthday it is has the freedom to pop in and vanish as he pleases. The perks of having an extraordinary brother. 

Ryan doesn’t wait up for Dylan, just in case he does crash at his boy’s, but he’s still pleased when Dylan texts, “Omw” and manifests in Ryan’s room two minutes later. 

“Took you long enough,” Ryan jokes.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “I was giving you warning time, loser.”

It’s Ryan’s fault that Dylan tackles him and they end up wrestling. Dylan’s officially taller than him now, and he’s not afraid to wrap Ryan in his long limbs like some overzealous spider to prove it.

“Alright!” Ryan taps out but Dylan basks in the victory a few moments longer, tucking his face against Ryan’s shoulder and biting playfully.

“That’s what you get,” he says and even _hmphs_ at Ryan like he’s taught him a major lesson.

Ryan laughs and wriggles until Dylan relents. “I guess I’ll just keep your present then.”

“No, give it to me,” Dylan says. From zero to needy in five seconds. Ryan laughs again but takes pity and digs out the box.

It’s nothing out of this world. Ryan bought him a chain, pretty simple overall, but it had seemed like Dylan’s style for some reason. When Dylan opens the box and his jaw drops before breaking into a smile, Ryan knows he was right.

“Dude.”

“Put it on,” Ryan says. 

“This is so cool.” Dylan tries to put it on himself but misses the clasp several times before he finally turns and lets Ryan do it. He touches the back of his neck when Ryan finishes and slides it around as he turns, bringing them face-to-face. “I’m wearing this all the time.”

“Until you break it.”

“I won’t.” 

He heads out of Ryan’s bedroom and across the short hall to the bathroom. Ryan trails after him and finds Dylan looking at himself with the chain on in the mirror. There’s a small cross on it, because it felt like it needed something. The only other possibility Ryan could think of had been letters, but then he couldn’t decide if he should get only a D or add Dylan’s jersey number. 

“It looks good,” he says, leaning on the door. 

Dylan’s touching the charm reverently, just looking. “I think so.”

“Happy birthday.”

Dylan smiles again, but this time something softer plays across his mouth. The expression somehow makes him look noticeably older. It messes with Ryan’s head for a brief moment, the realization hitting him all over again that Dylan’s growing up. They both are. 

When Dylan looks at him directly, Ryan can’t help feeling like it’s important to take in his face, everything. Dylan says, “Maybe it’ll be my new piece of luck.” He steps forward and kisses Ryan’s cheek dramatically, one loud smack on his skin. Ryan pretends to wince and shrug him off. “Thank you, Ry. A big sweetheart just like mom says.” 

“Whatever, you can go home now,” Ryan says, wiping his cheek. 

Dylan yawns right on cue. “Yeah, I probably should. ‘Night.” 

Ryan starts to wave as he passes but says, “Wait—hey.” Dylan pauses and tilts his head. “Are you really—what you said about being ‘busy’ earlier. Are you really having sex?”

Eyebrows lifting, Dylan says, “Oh, uh. I mean.”

“Not to pry. I want to make sure you’re cool, or. I don’t know.”

Dylan scratches at his arm idly, nervously. “Uh, kind of. Not everything, yet.”

“Sorry to be weird about it.”

“No, you’re—I get it,” Dylan says. “Actually, I think we might. Soon. So, I’ve been trying to figure out how not to suck at it.”

“Just take your time,” Ryan says. He shrugs and chuckles. “My first time was with a girl, but I think that applies either way.” He clears his throat. “Whether giving or, you know, receiving.”

“Wow, yeah. I’m definitely going home now.” 

Ryan nods. “Yeah, I think that’s a good call.” He cracks up after a second and Dylan does too. Ryan’s going to have to work on his sex advice skills for next time. “Good luck with the charm.”

“I don’t need it, remember? It _is_ my luck.” 

Dylan never leaves any kind of aura or echo behind when he goes, but Ryan holds his stance after he’s vanished anyway, still imagining the curve of Dylan’s smile. 

***

Two months later, Dylan accidentally pulls Ryan without asking first. It takes Ryan a few seconds to register where he is and that Dylan is naked, his boyfriend is naked and they’re definitely not just talking. He’s gone almost as quickly as he’s summoned, Dylan’s swear echoing in his brain. 

The next morning, Dylan calls and says, “I’m _so sorry_.”

Ryan’s groggy and under-rested thanks to how he spent too many hours staring into the darkness of his room, trying to will himself into short-term memory loss. “It’s whatever,” he croaks and clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I was freaking out. I thought about your advice, you know. Go slow.”

“It’s fine. He didn’t notice, did he?”

“No,” Dylan says and groans. “Can you imagine?”

“It’s really okay,” Ryan promises. He laughs breathily, despite logic. Maybe he’s a little hysterical. Loopy, definitely.

“Sorry,” Dylan repeats.

“Did you have fun at least?” Ryan dissolves into helpless, overtired giggles. “I hope I didn’t kill the mood.”

“I’m hanging up now.” 

Ryan forces himself to sober. “No, no, tell me. Did it work out?”

Dylan inhales and lets out a long breathe. “Yeah,” he says. “It was good. Eventually.”

“Okay.” Ryan squeezes his eyes and shakes his head at his empty bedroom. “Congrats, I guess.” 

Dylan finally relaxes too, chuckling. “Thank you, _I guess_. And thanks for the tip.”

“The tip!” Ryan crows, both of them letting the conversation veer off into nothing but laughter and really bad puns about sex and virginity.

***

There are no secrets between brothers. There are especially no secrets between brothers who can spend at least part of every day together if they want to, and even some moments they don’t plan.

Ryan likes that he doesn’t have to miss any of Dylan’s milestones, even the difficult ones. OHL priority selection, breaking up with another guy, meeting Connor, meeting Alex. Dylan reciprocates for Ryan’s milestones too, including when he breaks up with his girlfriend and finally caves and asks if Dylan will come by. He texts the news, asks, and then adds, “If you’re busy, it’s okay,” but Dylan’s in his room before Ryan can even send that third message.

“Are you serious?” Dylan asks, expression open and soft. 

Ryan nods. He feels ridiculous. It’s not even like the breakup was surprising. They’d been on the outs for a while, and Ryan’s used to being apart from her during a lot of the season, but he can’t kick feeling so fucking lonely tonight.

Dylan climbs into bed and envelopes him, cuddling as closely as he can. Ryan chuckles sadly. “I know I’m too old for this.”

“Shut up. You do it for me,” Dylan says and holds him tighter. “It’s my turn.”

Dylan is a lot of things, but more than anything, he thrives on affection. Receiving it is great, but Ryan’s learned it’s not about that, it’s more like he needs a constant loop of absorbing that energy and then giving it right back. He’d asked their dad to buy him a couple flowers he could give to Mikey after he kissed Dylan back, as if he’d needed to say thank you. Ryan thinks about that off and on still, the way Dylan radiates love and encourages the people he likes to let him overpower them with it. 

Ryan takes a breath and exhales, settling. He wants the company, he asked for it, and Dylan’s warm weight against him makes everything hurt less. 

“Breaking up with you? Rookie move,” Dylan says. Having his face pressed against Ryan’s shoulder garbles his words. He’s half on top of Ryan, keeping him pinned to the sheets, with his arms around Ryan’s middle. It’s grounding. 

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, hugging Dylan back as best he can. “She said I wasn’t there enough. I wasn’t putting in enough of an effort to make time.”

“Bullshit.” Dylan lifts his head, shifting to rest his chin on Ryan’s chest as he looks up. “You make time for everyone. It’s unreal, actually. Me and Matty were just wondering how you balance everything.”

“Not well.”

“Good enough for us,” Dylan says, then stretches his mouth in a sympathetic, closed smile. “You’re always good to me.” 

Ryan shakes his head, brushing it off. “You can’t break up with me anyway. You don’t have a choice.”

“You know what I mean.” Dylan lies down fully, lower now. His head rests over Ryan’s heart. The thud in Ryan’s chest feels so much more noticeable suddenly. 

He lays a hand on Dylan’s hair, stroking his fingers through his dark half-curls. The circumstances suck but the outcome, lying with Dylan, catching up and sharing space, all of this feels as close to perfect as Ryan can imagine. 

“Thanks. And thanks for babysitting me tonight.”

“It’s nice not to be the emotional one for a change,” Dylan quips, sparking a breathy laugh in Ryan. 

***

The thing is — there’s nothing stopping them from developing a routine. Ryan spends more nights in Erie than he might’ve anticipated. Dylan shows up in Bridgeport and New York, and it’s just _nice_ not to have to sleep alone if they don’t want. 

Most nights they don’t want. 

The sleepovers ebb when they date other people, then ramp up again when they’re both single. Sometimes they facetime Matt when he doesn’t have a ton of homework or isn’t off doing his own stuff for hockey. It’s easy. It’s comforting. It helps Ryan feel less crazy about juggling his career and all the demotions and recalls. 

During the summer, they tend go back to regular routine and separate rooms. Ryan sort of misses being able to count on Dylan showing up at night.

It’s not what motivates him to finally move out and get his own place, but he realizes early on that Dylan takes to coming by in the evenings pretty quickly. Driving, usually. But still.

“Dad still gets kind of startled by the disappearing thing,” Dylan says one night, amused. “Plus Mom said I should give the car they got me back if I’m not gonna use it.” 

Ryan laughs. “There’s no way you’re doing that.”

“In their dreams.” 

Some nights Dylan brings Matt with him, but other nights he’s flying solo and sleeps over. Even if he dozes off in the guest room or on the couch, Ryan gets used to Dylan sliding into bed during the wee hours, seeking body heat.

“Move over,” he grumbles sleepily. Ryan accommodates him, lifting the covers and letting his arm fall over Dylan as they both drift off.

The biggest difference between in-season and offseason overnights is that they’re both in the same place in the morning more often. There are no swift exits for practices or games. For breakfast, they tend to make smoothies and then go to the gym together if they don’t have other plans. One rest day, Ryan wakes up with more energy than he knows what to do with, so he leaves bed and decides to make breakfast.

John’s a much better cook than he is, but Ryan’s learned enough through living with him during the season that he can make a mean omelet. He chops veggies and adds chicken apple sausage. 

Dylan wanders out from Ryan’s bedroom while he’s plating the food, nose tilted up as he stretches and breathes in the smell. “What heaven did I wander into?” he says. Ridiculous. 

“Sit down,” Ryan says and gestures to the stools at the center island. He loves his pseudo-breakfast bar. Sliding a plate and glass toward Dylan as he yawns completes the mental picture Ryan had when he got this place. Serving guests, creating a home. 

Dylan starts digging in and asks, “Wow, do you do this for all the girls?” 

“Relax,” Ryan says, but Dylan lifts his eyebrows a few times, mocking. Ryan lightly cuffs his head, making Dylan complain. “Maybe I’m really nice. Or you’re special.” 

“Or the guinea pig,” Dylan says, dubiously. He takes another bite and hums. “Being the guinea pig is working out great though.”

“Thanks, I’ll tell all my dates that my brother signs off on all the hospitality.”

“Bed: 10. Food: 10. Ryan: a solid 7.”

“Hey!” Ryan jabs Dylan’s bicep.

“Okay, calm down. He’s a 10 too, folks.” Dylan rubs at his arm, pretending to be wounded. “Where’s your plate? I thought this was mealtime.”

“Gimme a second.” 

He grabs condiments and moves the bottle of orange juice to the other side of the island as he circles around. Dylan lifts his fork again as Ryan takes the barstool beside him, jerking his leg out to knock their knees together companionably. 

***

Ryan participates in a few training camps away from home, but whenever he’s back in the Toronto area, Dylan stays at his house. They huddle together in bed, they share breakfast, they train and laugh, and Matty joins whenever he isn’t busy with his own friends, and it’s perfect. Ryan kind of doesn’t want it to end.

He voices that, and Dylan says, “Well, it’s not like we won’t see each other.” He snaps his fingers, holding his arm above him as he lies on Ryan’s bed, a quick reminder of exactly how easy it is. “I’m a text away.” 

Ryan knows. He’s grateful, but there’s something about mundanity of riding in cars together to get home, that the distances have been short enough that they don’t need superhuman feats to bridge gaps. Plus, this is Dylan’s draft year. They might not even get to be on the same coast in the not-so-distant future. 

“Next summer,” Ryan says, “what if it was just me and you? Instead of me flying all over to train with other guys, we could do our own thing for a few months.”

“Really?” Dylan says, perking up. 

“Really.” Ryan shrugs. “You’ll have direction from whichever team drafts you. We can focus on helping you make the jump faster.”

“ _If_ someone drafts me.” 

“They will,” Ryan says. He doesn’t have to pretend to be modest about it. Dylan’s amazing. 

Rolling onto his stomach, Dylan elbow crawls over to Ryan and smiles down at him. “You want to train me?”

“I want to help.” Ryan wants to keep being there for Dylan. “I need to spend more time with you.” 

Dylan’s grin widens, all teeth. “I like that. Let’s do it.”

***

In the meantime, hockey kicks Ryan’s ass. Draft year also hits Dylan with a lot of challenges, not only on the ice but with interviews and documentary cameras and constantly being tied to Connor’s story on top of managing his own trajectory. Some nights they barely have the energy to talk, Dylan falling onto Ryan when he appears and both of them dropping into sleep at record speeds. 

Once, Ryan’s so tired that it feels like barely a second has passed between falling asleep with Dylan and John knocking on his bedroom door. Ryan startles awake as John peeks in, frantically trying to get his bearings. He’s up and then he worries John will see Dylan, but Ryan paws aimlessly and realizes Dylan’s already gone.

“Hey,” John says. “Sounded like your alarm’s been going off for a while.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Ryan searches for his phone and finally turns off the beeping. “I’m awake. I’m good.” 

“Just checking,” John says and leaves him alone again. 

Ryan texts Dylan, “Damn didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I heard JT moving around!” Dylan writes back. Ryan chuckles softly, still blinking away sleep, and finally shuffles out of bed. 

Being overwhelmed doesn’t mean they don’t find pockets of fun. One of their off days matches up, and Ryan has Dylan meet him after John’s left for the morning. They spend the day wandering around New York together, away from Ryan’s neighborhood to avoid inconvenient run-ins with teammates. 

“They might buy that I came down from Erie for a day,” Dylan says. 

“Let’s not even chance it,” Ryan says, taking his hand and leading him to the subway so they can head further out after grabbing food. 

When Dylan isn’t around, Ryan hangs out with his team. He dates but nothing really sticks. Dylan manages to get into hijinks with the Otters, but still, nothing prepares Ryan for the night Dylan calls and talks his way around something for twenty minutes before finally confessing, “So, I kind of… had a threesome.”

“What the _fuck_. With who?” Ryan doesn’t know what he thought Dylan was getting around to saying, but he definitely hadn’t guessed that.

“I knew you would freak.”

“It’s surprising!” Ryan clears his throat and composes himself. “I was not ready for that.”

“Brinsky’s girlfriend was in town, and she had this whole story about ending up with these bottles of wine. We decided to do this pretend fancy dinner thing,” Dylan explains. “It was shits and giggles. Neither of us can even cook that well, and we kept drinking the wine, and she kissed him, which—normal. But then she gives him this look and kisses me, and I don’t know. It happened.”

“Wow,” is all Ryan can say for a long time. He sputters for several moments, then asks, “Did you—I mean, I assume you had a good time.”

“Yeah.” Dylan sounds sort of faraway as he says it, like he’s still trying to parse everything himself. “Yeah, I’d never, you know. I’ve kissed girls but nothing that far, so that was new. And Lyndsey’s the best.”

Ryan wishes he had something smart to say. Or witty. His mind is a jumble of thoughts, and there’s a well of something collecting in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with. For some reason, asking, “Do you think you’ll do it again?” makes the feeling pulse inside him.

Dylan doesn’t answer right away. He hems and haws over it, then says, “Probably not.”

“Oh—”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love them,” he continues. “But they still feel like friends. They were all cuddly after and this morning. They’re out doing couple stuff now or whatever, and—I felt. It made me kind of wish I had somebody who was just mine.”

“I get that.”

Being somebody’s favorite is an intoxicating thing. Reminders that he’s not really involved with anyone long-term sometimes makes Ryan feel lonely too.

“Have you done that?” Dylan asks.

“Uh, no.” Ryan’s out of his depth on this one. “You have me beat there.”

“Whoa, okay. The student becomes the teacher.” Dylan affects some weird professorial voice.

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.”

“Let me know if you need tips on women. I know about them now.”

Ryan laughs and threatens to hang up.

***

What Dylan touches on about loneliness and wanting someone sticks with Ryan. The words ping around in his head at irregular intervals. Dylan shouldn’t have to feel alone. Hockey is busy, and trying to go pro can mean sacrificing a chance to get to know too many people who aren’t involved in the same kinds of obligations. It can be rough, but that doesn’t mean it has to be isolating. 

Ryan checks in with Dylan while the team is on a central team road swing. “You know, if you want to have more time to date and see who you like, you can do that,” he says. He feels off-kilter saying it, because it’s not like Dylan needs his permission.

Dylan snorts. “What? Did you not hear my story? I get into plenty of trouble.” 

“I mean that I know I take up a lot of your time.” 

“Ry.” Dylan makes another jagged noise, sort of laughing at Ryan through the line. “Having you around helps keep from being by myself.”

“But other people could be keeping you company. You could be finding that person who’s yours, like you said.”

Dylan shakes his head on his end of the video call. “I’m not _that_ worried about it.” He rolls his eyes. “Just wait up for me, nerd. I still expect you to still come here tonight.”

“Fine,” Ryan says. “If you’re sure.”

“I’ll call you.”

The hour is late when Dylan finally calls to give Ryan’s a heads up, but he does follow through. Seconds after he hangs gets off the phone, Ryan is in Dylan’s bedroom in Erie, staring right at him.

“You can tell where I’ll appear now?” Ryan asks. 

“It’s the same focus stuff. The better I can picture everything, the easier it is to control.” He drops down on his bed and stretches his arms and legs out. “I’m getting better at it.”

“Well, good job.” Climbing onto the bed is precarious situation with Dylan starfishing over the sheets. Ryan knows it’s a set-up, but he goes for it anyway and isn’t surprised when Dylan’s snaps his arms and legs closed around Ryan like a Venus flytrap. 

They tussle, battling for dominance. When the chaos clears, Dylan settles into Ryan’s loose embrace and they doze off together to the sounds of nighttime bugs in the trees outside.

***

Being brothers who can do what they can means never being surprised if they wake up tangled together. Dylan is a clinger if someone lets him, and Ryan has been terrible at telling him no since forever. Ryan has smelled Dylan’s morning breath, been poked by his morning wood, had his shirts drooled on a little because Dylan starts snoring with his mouth half-open. It’s all worth it for the warmth and the way Dylan squeezes him tightly at random, still unconscious moments. 

It’s really, really worth it. 

If Ryan wakes up with his fingers stroking through Dylan’s hair, he remembers to pause and inhale. That’s what Dylan does for Ryan without even trying. He gives him a chance to breathe.

Ryan wants to do something special for Dylan’s 18th birthday, but hockey makes it difficult. They both play away games and need to travel right after. Dylan has another game the very next day, but the saving grace is that Ryan doesn’t, and the Islanders fly into Toronto after a shootout loss in Florida.

He does at least call when the team lands. “Happy birthday, Dyl,” he says. “Old man now.”

“I feel it in my bones,” Dylan says gruffly, exaggerating. Ryan chuckles.

“Come to my house after you play North Bay, okay?”

“It’ll probably be late.”

“I know,” Ryan says. “Come anyway. I have your present.” 

He watches the game and cheers to himself each time Erie scores. They win 5-3, which is especially great, because it means Dylan won’t have his mood ruined. First full day as an 18-year-old: success.

Ryan still isn’t much of a chef. He grills steaks despite the cold and orders some of the fancier sides from Dylan’s favorite splurge restaurant to really make it a complete meal. The spread looks nice all put-together, and Ryan times it close enough to when Dylan’s able to get away that the food is still warm.

Dylan looks fresh but rumpled when he appears, a typical post-game kind of comfort. The Islanders lost yesterday, so Ryan has spent the better part of the day just thinking about getting to wish his brother happy birthday in person to avoid dwelling. Dylan showing up is literally the best part of the last 48 hours. 

“Happy birthday,” Ryan says and holds out his arms. 

Dylan folds himself into the hug almost, rounding his back to get his chin on Ryan’s shoulder. “Thank you. Dude, this looks great.”

It feels good pamper Dylan a little bit. An indulgent dinner, a couple presents and a small handwritten contract on a legal pad that promises Ryan to him for the summer. Dylan cracks up as his eyes scan the words and realizes what he’s holding. 

“Had to make it official.” Ryan says. 

Dylan holds his belly and takes a moment to collect himself. “Wait, you didn’t even sign it though.”

“We’re going to now.”

Grabbing a pen, he slides his stool closer to Dylan’s and then lets Dylan put down his autograph first. Ryan takes over, signs beneath Dylan’s name and adds the date.

“Binding,” Dylan says. He flashes a toothy grin at Ryan. “You have to do what I say.” Somehow it turns into an intense staring match, Dylan gradually leaning forward. “Anything I want. Are you ready for that?”

“Just don’t make me regret it.” Ryan’s eyes are starting to cross from the proximity.

Their foreheads touch, and Dylan says, “Of course not. Only fun stuff.” When Ryan’s eye starts to itch and he looks away, blinking, Dylan fistpumps. “I win.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan says, rubbing at his eyes. 

Dylan blinks out for 15 minutes soon after to check in with the team’s bus ride back to Erie. When he comes back, he says, “Okay, I can do another hour, probably,” so they make the most of it with the small cake that Ryan bought, then playing video games with Dylan’s legs in Ryan’s lap on the couch. 

“Thanks for this,” Dylan says between loading screens. “It’s good to be home for a little bit.”

“Any time,” Ryan says. “Well, whenever I can.”

He traces the round bone of Dylan’s ankle and squeezes once, reassuring. 

***

Dylan’s muted happiness during their lazy birthday celebration is turned up to 11 after the draft lottery a month later. It’s his turn to pull Ryan back home to Toronto, too. Ryan almost bails, because the Islanders have another game versus the Capitals the next day — during his _first_ Stanley Cup Playoffs. He’s exhausted already, but it’s Dylan, and Dylan says, “Please, please, please,” over the phone in a way that makes the words run into one another.

“Did you get a hold of champagne again?” 

“A little,” Dylan says, sheepishly. “It’s a big day! But I need to walk it off before bed.”

“Alright, alright.” Ryan gets up to find his shoes and grab his jacket. “Give me two minutes, then you can pull me.”

“Are you at home?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay, easy.”

“Don’t lose me because you’re tipsy.”

“I won’t!” Dylan says indignantly. “I could pull you practically in my sleep.” He’s not really wrong. He’s done it before, sort of on accident, Ryan found out after. While waking up, he’d wished Ryan was there to shield him from the morning chill. So suddenly Ryan was.

Ryan gets himself situated and stands in the middle of his hotel room, waiting. As he starts to feel that familiar tingle, the only warning before he blinks out, he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Dylan’s in front him, smiling.

“Hi,” he says. “Told you. Got you.” 

The way his words are smashing together is even more noticeable in person. “You liar. You had more than a little.”

Dylan giggles and sways forward. Ryan’s arms come up around him instinctively as he says, “Don’t tell Mom.”

“Where are your other guys?” Ryan asks. 

“Upstairs already.” Now that he’s in the hug, Dylan seems reluctant to leave it. He’s hunching in to stay huddled against Ryan, turning his face into Ryan’s neck. “I get restless legs when I drink, I guess.”

“Let’s walk then,” Ryan says, but he doesn’t rush Dylan to straighten up again. 

When he finally does, he links his arm with Ryan’s, a tether in the nighttime chill. Ryan asks about his day, how the draft lottery went. He saw the order, and he saw a little bit of the reaction on social media, but for the most part he waited for this, for the chance to catch up with Dylan. 

“It was pretty cool,” he says. “It’s weird, because everybody is so nice and talks about you like it’s a guarantee. We work so hard to be good and be the best, but they talk about it like this is the victory lap.”

“When it’s the most pressure.”

“Yeah!” Dylan says. “Flattering. But weird.”

“You deserve it too, though. You are good.” Ryan nudges Dylan with his elbow. 

Dylan scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. “I just kind of wish it didn’t have to be on TV while I’ve got my mullet going.”

Ryan laughs. “You made that choice. You have to live with it.”

Pivoting to hair leads them away from talking about the draft. Dylan asks about the playoffs instead, how Ryan’s feeling. It’s not unlike a draft year, when Ryan thinks about it. Being in the playoffs is exhilarating, a victory lap in itself, and yet it’s the most pressure Ryan’s felt all season. That’s been true at almost every level, to an extent, but to remember he’s experiencing it in NHL — that amplifies every feeling that strikes him throughout a day.

“I’m so happy for you,” Dylan says.

“It’ll be you too, one day. Probably soon.”

“I don’t know about that. I have to focus on winning a championship in Erie first.”

When they come across a shop that’s still open, Ryan makes them stop to get water. He buys a bottle for Dylan and opens it, tucking the cap in his pocket. Dylan takes the water with one hand, drinks, and instead of looping his arm through Ryan’s again, he reaches for his hand. He holds on while Dylan downs half the bottle, as if he’s afraid Dylan might lean too far and topple. 

Ryan keeps him anchored. He tugs Dyan back as he starts to fade away. Dylan gasps finally and inhales. He keeps gripping Ryan’s hand as they go back to strolling, their palms pressed together comfortably. 

They talk about everything and nothing in particular. They talk about Matty, their parents, and how Dylan’s seen a ton of ‘Friends’ lately. Connor has been doing a whole series rewatch to clear his head, and that means Dylan and Alex get roped into watching with him a lot.

Dylan goes quiet as Ryan laughs about it. When the conversation lull sets in, he says, “Davo is going to Edmonton.”

“I saw they got the pick,” Ryan says. “Pretty crazy, huh?”

Dylan _hmms_ in answer. He doesn’t elaborate right away, and eventually Ryan pulses his hand to prompt him. “Everything else—Buffalo, Arizona, even back here. Most of it is far apart. Especially far from Edmonton.”

That is the part that kind of blows about getting drafted. Ryan didn’t go the college route, but he’s still always assumed it’s just like going away to school. You make all your high school friends and then everyone goes their separate ways. Time to start over. 

Ryan says, “You’re gonna miss him.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, sighing. He drinks the rest of his water and tosses the empty in a trashcan as they pass. “I also—” He shrugs. “I don’t want to be alone somewhere.”

“That won’t happen.” Ryan stops, making Dylan pause as well. First of all, Dylan is one of the most outgoing people Ryan has ever known. As a kid, he could jump into a ball pit at a birthday party and come out with three new friends. Secondly, “You’ve got me. I’ll keep you company.”

That makes Dylan’s mouth quirk, lifting on one side. “I guess that’s true.”

“You’ve got an advantage most people don’t have.”

“ _We_ do.”

“No,” Ryan says, shaking his head. He nudges Dylan’s shoulder and rubs a hand over his hair, disturbing the mullet. “I can’t do what you do.” Dylan tilts his chin higher, Ryan’s hand dragging down the side of his face until he’s practically cupping Dylan’s cheek. He chuckles softly as Dylan half-turns his face into Ryan’s palm like some kind of cat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I wish I could blink us back to the hotel now. I’m tired.”

“See? The fact that you can even say that,” Ryan says. “You’re so special, Dyl.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m serious,” Ryan insists. He strokes his thumb across Dylan’s skin. “And proud of you. I’m amazed by you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan says, but he smiles, the apple of his cheek pushing into Ryan’s hand. He blinks slowly, clearly lethargic, and Ryan can’t seem to stop looking at him. Not when he laughs breathily, not when he goes quiet again, staring back, not as Dylan leans impossibly forward and their breaths mingle for a split second before their mouths touch. 

Ryan gasps and pauses, creating a hair’s length of space. He tries to look at Dylan but can’t, still too close to parse him. Dylan is holding his breath, and Ryan’s mind is abuzz with disjointed thoughts as his lips tingle with the echo of a kiss, and—and. He doesn’t stop it when the gap closes again. Instead his mouth parts, like reflex, and Dylan presses nearer.

Dylan is a force. Ryan feels overwhelmed by the whole of him on most days, all of his emotion and affection and the way he takes up space. Their lips moving together eclipses all of that. Ryan tightens his grip on Dylan’s fingers, weathers the tide. Dylan’s tongue running across his lip gently finally throws him. Ryan jolts back for air.

“Shit,” Dylan says, high and strained, and instantly Ryan is standing in his own bedroom. 

The shift disorients him. He takes a while to let it all sink in. The cold of Toronto still nips at his face and hands as he thinks about standing on a random block, about being in a whole different country a second ago, about kissing Dylan. 

Dylan. He’s still there.

Ryan fumbles for his phone and types out, “What happened?” 

Then, “Bring me back.”

Then, “Dyl.” 

He gets no response. Ryan paces the length of his room a good twenty times, staring at his phone and hoping for those telltale typing bubbles to start bouncing. Nothing. He dials through, and the line rings and rings. Ryan hangs up and calls again. Nothing. 

He’s stuck in the dark for nearly half an hour before a text finally comes in from Dylan that simply says, “Made it back. Don’t worry.”

“Talk to me,” Ryan writes and waits another 10 minutes before he shoves his phone across his bed in frustration. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

***

Ryan can’t do what Dylan can do. He hasn’t thought about that so much over the years, content to let Dylan control the comings and goings. How lopsided everything is feels much starker when all Ryan wants is to talk but Dylan continues to ignore any attempts to reach out.

Not sleeping messes Ryan up the next day, which sucks considering he has another game against Washington. Luckily the team pulls out an overtime win thanks to John, but as soon as Ryan leaves the arena, he’s looking at his phone again. 

Still no updates from Dylan.

Their routine gets snapped. Ryan tries not to bug his brother, but he worries too.

When the Otters’ next round starts, Ryan texts, “Good luck,” to Dylan that morning and doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t get one either.

Four days later, the Islanders lose game seven 2-1 in DC, and everything in Ryan’s life feels like it kind of sucks then. He commiserates with the boys and spends an extra day back in the apartment wirth John, licking their wounds. After that, Ryan makes himself get on with being an adult—though John wouldn’t really let him slack too long anyway. John is annoyingly practical about the NHL already, which is great most of the time, but not when Ryan would rather sulk about his professional life to avoid obsessing over the reason his brother won’t answer his texts. 

Locker room cleanout and packing everything in New York distracts him for a short while, but Ryan still gets back to his hometown. Ryan catches up with his parents, talks to Matty, but then still goes home to his own place at the end of the day and sits alone.

There’s an annoying, impossible-to-ignore space in his day-to-day where Dylan should be. All over a kiss. 

Ryan’s done his best not to think about it, but as soon as he’s back in Toronto, it’s right at the forefront of his mind. The moment hasn’t mercefully gotten any hazier. It feels etched in stone, Ryan seeing his hand on Dylan’s face and Dylan’s eye sliding shut as he rocks closer. 

The thing is—Ryan kissed him back. Replaying it makes his throat ache, like he’s swallowing down his heart as it tries to push up and out. Ryan kissed him back, and now Dylan won’t even speak to him.

On Friday, Matt calls and asks, “Are you coming over to watch the Dyl’s game? Dad’s gonna grill.”

Ryan has followed most of the Otters’ games on paper, but he hasn’t really had the nerve to watch for more than a few minutes. It’s made him actively think about Dylan, and doing that beyond five minutes at a time has felt too risky. 

“Sure,” he says anyway. 

Of course he’s going.

The Otters are playing for their lives. They’re on the verge of elimination, in full desperation mode. Ryan watches how Connor, Alex and all the guys he’s met from Dylan’s team play, but more than anything he’s watching Dylan. 

The whole family cheers whenever he has a great shift or scoring chance. Their enthusiasm allows Ryan to fade into the background, sitting back and taking in every second the camera has Dylan in frame. Part of him wants to ask Matt how Dylan’s been, but he also doesn’t want anyone to know something is up between them. 

If they ask why, Ryan doesn’t have anything he can tell them. We kissed, Ryan thinks, and exhales roughly. Even stating it plainly in his head makes his pulse stutter and his limbs tingle. Instantly restless. He can’t run away from his own mind, but he wishes he could. 

Erie just doesn’t have it in the end. They try to put up a fight, but Oshawa’s offense proves too hot. It’s brutal to watch them lose 6-2, and it feels worse when they show Dylan as he skates off with his teammates. He gives Connor a lingering hug, and Ryan’s mom says, “Aw, it’s heartbreaking,” as Dylan finally lets go and trudges off down the corridor. 

The world flashes away and comes back quickly. Ryan falls on his ass, right on the floor in a hallway. He can hear commotion to one end and then he hears Dylan say, “Fuck,” and that snaps Ryan’s attention in the other direction. 

“Dylan. Wait!” Ryan calls, but then everything is gone again. 

Ryan finds himself outside of his own house. He sighs and lies back on the grass, looking up at the sky with no jacket or shoes on. Dylan’s emotions are clearly out of whack if he’s sending Ryan to and fro without any precision, and yet everything in Ryan is thrumming with adrenaline, willing Dylan to pull him through space again. 

The silver lining is that Ryan kept his phone and keys in his pocket instead of setting them on the coffee table. He digs his cell out of his pants and calls the house. 

“Are you with him?” his dad asks in place of a greeting. 

“I was.”

“How is he?”

Ryan pictures the look on Dylan’s face, broken and frustrated. “He’s sad, you know?”

“Poor guy,” his dad says. 

Ryan nods, swallowing past the knot in his throat. 

“Where are you?” 

Clearing his voice, Ryan says, “He dropped me in front of my place. I’ll, uh. I’ll just come get my car tomorrow.”

They say goodbyes, and Ryan pushes up from the ground and heads inside. Staying put seems smarter right now, in case the universe tilts again. Ryan doesn’t want to risk freaking out any rideshare drivers by vanishing from anyone’s backseat unexpectedly.

That leaves him pacing around his house for hours. He has too much time to wonder where Dylan is at any given moment, to put his brain through the wringer over whether Dylan has called the rest of the family already. The first word Dylan has said to him in weeks was a swear, because he only reached out to Ryan by accident. It sucks, but he clings to it like the shred of hope it is, a desperate chant in his head of maybe, maybe, maybe.

Relief is strange to feel when his limbs are then set alight and Ryan finds himself instantly standing at the foot of Dylan’s bed in Erie, watching Dylan wipe at his eyes. It fades quickly, as everything else settles in—that Dylan looks so wrecked. 

“Hey,” Ryan whispers. 

Dylan sniffs, glancing up. He wipes his eyes more and says, “Fuck, why are you _here_?”

It breaks something in Ryan. “Dylan.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

He tries to reach out, but Dylan jumps off the bed, bolting for the bathroom. He closes the door when Ryan follows, the press of the lock on the other side unmistakable. 

“Come on, Dyl.”

“ _Go away_.”

Ryan almost bangs on the door, ready to go the irritating route, but he remembers that there are other people in the house. If they get too loud, someone in the billet family could come to investigate. 

Backing up, Ryan slides down the wall and looks at the light underneath the bathroom door, how it doesn’t move. He waits to end up at home again, but he stares and stares and nothing changes. If Dylan is still crying, he isn’t loud about it. Ryan gradually moves closer to the door and lets his head rest against the wood, knocking as softly as possible.

Finally, some movement inside. The shift in light prompts him to say, “Talk to me, please.”

“How are you not gone?” Dylan asks. A plea. He sounds close, like maybe he’s right on the other side. 

Ryan rests his hand on the door, as if he can somehow force it to give way. “I can only be where you want me. Remember?”

Everything inside goes quiet. He worries he’s ruined any progress he might’ve been making, back to square one, but the door opens a minute later. Ryan scrambles to his feet when he sees Dylan standing upright, face dry but still flush and kind of puffy.

Ryan opens his mouth to speak, but Dylan gets there first, saying, “Don’t start,” and huffs. “I know I fucked up, and you probably have a lot to say.” He holds up his hands as Ryan tries again. “Wait, I—can you put that off one more day, because today I can’t, uh. I just need—”

He stumbles over the sentence a couple times, and Ryan pulls him in. Dylan goes easily, letting Ryan hug him. Ryan gets it. He understands, and he would say that, but Dylan seems to crave a different kind of reassurance right now.

Ryan guides him back to the bedroom and onto the mattress. They lie on top of the covers, Dylan burrowing his face against Ryan’s skin like he hasn’t done for nearly a month.

“Got you,” Ryan murmurs. “Promise.” 

Dylan sniffs and wraps his arms around Ryan, holding him tightly. 

He’s not sure how long they’re lying together before they doze off. All he knows is that he wakes again, and he’s briefly out of sorts until he realizes Dylan’s getting out of bed. Ryan squints at the light in bedroom, hears the bathroom door shut and sighs. Dylan isn’t gone very long at all. He switches off the light as he returns and goes to tug off his jeans. 

Ryan had switched to basketball shorts for the evening, but he pulls back the covers and gets under, holding them open for Dylan too. Wordlessly, Dylan slides between the sheets and moves into Ryan’s space like he never really left. Ryan rubs Dylan’s back and shoulder as they find comfort. There’s no going right back to sleep, but he’s content to stay in the dark and soothe Dylan for a while. 

Dylan’s voice startles him when he says, “Thanks.”

“Oh, any—any time.”

He can feel Dylan inhale deeply and release it in a slow, even stream. “I just wanted it so bad.”

“I know,” Ryan says.

Dylan reverses, pushing away enough to really look at Ryan for the first time all night. His eyes glitter in the dark, moonlight cutting in from the window at Ryan’s back. He can’t tell if there are tears welling or that’s simply the way Dylan’s eyes look all the time, soft and shining. 

Ryan kisses his brow, right at the crease of Dylan’s gentle frown. Dylan makes a sad noise, sort of pathetic, and Ryan’s belly flutters with a protective edge just that easily.

“I miss you,” he says. He probably sounds ridiculous, but it’s the truth. Dylan nestles into him, nearly syncing their breathing. Ryan has missed this so much.

Shifting closer and closer still feels both surreal and inevitable. They both want to be as near as possible, so of course that’s what happens, and yet Ryan’s breath catches again as he kisses Dylan for the second time. 

Dylan’s so hesitant. He has less confidence than when they were standing outside. Maybe that’s the difference between impulse and whatever they might call this moment, spawned by disappointment rather than celebration. Either way, it sets Ryan on fire. 

His fingers graze Dylan’s side, right beneath his shirt. Dylan shivers. Bringing his arm higher, he touches the back of Ryan’s head, holding him steady and parting his lips to give Ryan better access. He slides his leg between Ryan’s, the skin-on-skin contact that has felt innocent a thousand times before somehow sending electricity through Ryan’s muscles. 

Ryan gasps and rocks flat, Dylan climbing on top of him. His hands brace Dylan’s thighs as they find stability, dragging higher and resting on his hips. They’re making out. No other possible way to think of it would be honest. Ryan kisses him, deeper by the second. He can’t stop pushing into it to get more. 

Resituating, Dylan rocks forward, the motions sliding their bodies together. Ryan realizes he’s getting hard one second after he notices the stiff line of Dylan’s cock pressed against him.

He freezes. They pant a little, undignified and suspended, but Dylan brings his legs in tighter, squeezing Ryan that way, and Ryan can’t help bucking to reciprocate. He wants this. 

“Ry,” Dylan breathes once, rolling his hips in earnest. They kiss again, losing themselves in it. Ryan keeps lifting to meet Dylan’s hips each time he rolls, finding a rough, steady rhythm that makes them groan. 

It should be more uncomfortable than it is. Instead Ryan can’t stop chasing the tremors in his belly and wishing he could make Dylan shudder more, nonstop spikes of pleasure shooting through him relentlessly. The closer he gets the more friction he craves. Ryan palms Dylan’s ass, lightly first then flexing his grip as he tries to grind harder. 

“Oh, God,” he gasps, sliding his hand into the back of Dylan’s underwear and gripping the cheek hard. Dylan’s breath hitches, a silky moan right behind it. They’re both grinding without pausing, working their muscles as much as they can to find release, and though Dylan gets there first, Ryan doesn’t come too far behind him.

Orgasm is little paralyzing. They’re barely kissing much anymore as their bodies wind down. Dylan’s lips slide across Ryan’s, but he drifts down to his chin and throat, mouthing gently while Ryan lets the waves snake through him. He’s cradled in the haze of coming and the warmth of Dylan, marveling at all the places they’re pressed together. 

Just as he lifts a hand to bring to Dylan’s hair, he feels a buzz. 

“No,” Ryan pleads, but before it’s even out of his mouth, he’s back in his bedroom, his underwear sticky and the memory Dylan like a tease.

“Fuck,” Ryan says to his empty house. He slams his fist into his mattress. “Goddammit!”

Trying to get any rest that night turns out to be the hardest thing Ryan’s ever done. 

***

In the morning, he texts Dylan, “Are you okay?”

No answer. 

Great. Back to radio silence. 

He waits an hour and then tries to call, unsurprised when it goes to voicemail. Ryan sets his phone down and puts his head in his hands, prodding at his temples. Right when he thought they might make a little progress, they skipped good judgment and nosedived right into making things more complicated. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what this is between them. Everything they’ve known about one another feels as if it’s been flipped upside down, and he wishes Dylan would at least _talk_ to him about that. 

Ryan makes himself eat breakfast and go for a run. When he gets back, he tries to call Dylan again. This time, he leaves a message.

“Dyl, please, I just want to know if you’re alright. I’m sorry if,” he tries, but he’s not even sure how to phrase it. If last night was wrong? If they went too far? If he hurt Dylan? He doesn’t want any of those things to be true, but they probably both already know the answer is more likely to be yes than no. “I’m just sorry. Okay? Okay, bye.”

Ryan lets his brain replay snatches of the night—comforting Dylan, and then escalating. He can’t really pinpoint the moment things changed, and that’s what bothers him. He knows that both times he wanted to be there for Dylan. He knows that both times it had felt strangely mesmerizing and good to kiss him. Shame and longing well up and war in Ryan’s gut. He doesn’t know how this happened, but whatever they stepped into doesn’t seem to want to quiet in him either. 

He catches a ride to his parents’ house to pick up his car and his shoes. Matt is making sandwiches for him and Mom, so Ryan decides to hang around for a minute and join.

“We’ve got chicken, turkey and ham,” Matt says as Ryan sits at the kitchen table alongside their mom. “All the classic lunch meats and toppings. What do you want?”

“I’ll take turkey, please.”

Mom asks, “Have you talked to Dylan again?”

Ryan frowns. “He didn’t call you?”

“He did in the evening, just to touch base, but we haven’t heard about when he’s planning to come home yet.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, fidgeting in his seat. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that he isn’t the only one Dylan’s ignoring today. “We didn’t get into that either, last night. It was mostly me, uh, being there for him. I haven’t talked to him again yet.”

“He did say he wasn’t really feeling well when you talked to him, Mom, right?” Matt says from across the room. “Maybe his cold or whatever took over.”

“No, his stomach was upset. It wasn’t a cold,” Mom says. “A bug or something.”

Ryan frowns. “He’s sick?”

“Yeah. Just making a rough night worse.”

He’s not sure if he should believe that. Dylan hadn’t mentioned anything to him.

He lets them slowly dominate the conversation and messes around his phone, waiting for a text that never pings.

***

Dylan takes his sweet time getting back to anyone about his next steps. When he does reach out, it definitely isn’t to give Ryan the rundown. Matt calls him that evening and says Dylan really did get sick. He and Connor had food poisoning, they think, and it got worse by the morning.

“Connor didn’t want to take an extra day, but Dylan is,” Matt says. “So they’re not coming up together anymore. Dylan’s driving back the day after tomorrow.” 

“What time?”

“Why, you’re coming over?” 

Ryan shrugs at Matt over the video call. “Yeah, I mean. It’s been a while since we’ve all, uh, had dinner—yeah, maybe we do a family dinner together.”

“Oh, yeah, good call. He’s aiming for five, anyway. Around then. So the timing works out pretty well.” 

“Yeah, perfect. Alright, I’ll see you guys.”

***

Ryan has never been so nervous to go home. He spends the entire day restless, cleaning his house to keep himself busy and then catching up on errands he’s ignored. By the evening, he’s exhausted all of the adult busy work he can think to do. Matt texts to let him know Dylan’s made it home around 5:30, and Ryan makes himself wait another half-hour before he gets into his car and drives the short distance to his parents’ place.

“Look who it is!”

Ryan’s dad lifts an arm in celebration when he walks through his parents’ front door.

“Hey, hey.”

“You’re here so much lately I’m half-expecting you to say you’re moving back in,” Dad jokes.

“Not quite,” Ryan tells him, leaning down to hug him around the shoulders with one arm. “What are you doing?”

His dad has the TV remote in his hands, poking around the settings menus. “I’m getting the music going so it can drift out back. Everybody’s on the patio.”

“Cool.” 

Ryan feels the opposite of cool about it, actually, but he forces his legs to take him in that direction anyway. The temperature’s pretty comfortable, the sun past its zenith but still shedding light on the backyard as the day creeps closer to sunset. When Ryan reaches the backyard, he finds his mom watching over the grill while Matt stabs peppers and onions on skewers. Dylan is rolling around in the grass, baiting Oscar into jumping all over his body.

“Guess he’s feeling better,” he says, though the relief he feels is definitely tied to something else. Funny how it’s only been a few days, and yet Ryan’s whole body is humming like he’s survived another month without seeing Dylan’s face. 

Nerves act as the inconvenient chaser to his initial relief. Dylan finally notices him and pauses, looking up from the ground. Ryan shakes out his fingers and then waves at Dylan tentatively. Dylan doesn’t quite smile, a laugh that he gave to Oscar slowly fading from his face, but he raises a hand in acknowledgement and then goes back to playing with the dog. 

“Yeah, it seems like it was a quick bug. Twenty-four hours,” his mom says. “Lucky him.”

“Yeah, lucky.” 

Ryan feels awkward the entire time they’re in the backyard, but no one else seems to notice. Tension gets lost in all the music and the food and everybody taking turns indulging Oscar in the most excitement he’s probably seen in weeks. Ryan tries to minimize how much he glance at Dylan, trying to gauge whether there’s an opening. He’s not entirely sure that works, but no one says anything to him about it at least, and when Dylan stands up and says, “Wait, I gotta use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” Ryan almost forgets himself and follows right behind him.

Better judgement prevails, sort of. Ryan chugs the beer in his hand and makes noises about bringing up water bottles from the basement.

“Anybody want anything?” he asks. 

“No, thanks,” Matt says. Their mom and dad echo the sentiment, and Ryan heads into the house, ignoring the basement to see if he can catch Dylan.

The downstairs bathroom is empty, so Ryan heads upstairs and hears the toilet flush as he reaches the top of the landing. Waiting outside for Dylan to wash his hands and resurface isn’t the least creepy thing Ryan’s ever done, but he also feels like he doesn’t have much choice when Dylan’s put so much effort into avoiding him. 

Ryan straightens as the door opens, adrenaline pumping through him. “Hey,” he says.

“Christ,” Dylan says, jumping back. “Are you serious? You scared the hell out of me.” 

He holds an arm out, maneuvering like he’s going to shove past, and Ryan grabs his elbow and tugs him in the opposite direction away from the stairs. He says, “Please. You can’t keep bailing and ignoring me.”

Dylan shoves him lightly, less anger and more trying to break free. Ryan lets him go but puts his body right in the middle of the corridor. 

“Let me by,” Dylan says. 

“Talk to me.”

“Don’t be a psycho, Ryan. Let me go back outside.” 

“I just want you to be an adult and speak to me.”

“Jesus.” Dylan grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Ryan senses a tingle zipping up along his legs. “Don’t,” he says and claps to shatter Dylan’s concentration. “Don’t you dare. I said sorry. We need to talk.”

“To say what? You can’t trap me in our fucking hallway.”

“And you can’t send me away forever,” Ryan says. He pushes at Dylan’s shoulder, frustration getting the best of him. Dylan stumbles back, eyes widening. Ryan balls his fist and then stuffs his hand in his pockets to keep from reaching out again. “Dyls.”

Dylan spins on his heel and stalks into his bedroom. Ryan follows and says his name again. Dylan groans and flops back on his bed, pulling a pillow over his face.

Ryan hovers in the doorway awkwardly, unsure about if he should proceed or if Dylan will disappear him anyway. He says, “You didn’t tell me you were sick the other night.”

After a long stretch of nothing but distant music outdoors, Dylan says, “Kind of had other things on my mind.”

“About that—”

“Can’t we just drop this?”

“No.”

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s not fucking fair!” Ryan doesn’t mean to snap. He swallows and takes a breath, grateful that the music downstairs has probably masked his outburst. “You own me, alright? We both know that. If you want me, I’m here. If you don’t, I’m gone, and I have no control over any of that, so I’m sorry that this is the one time in your whole life that I want to see you when you don’t feel like it, but what am I supposed to do? This is _killing_ me.” 

Dylan curls in on himself and shifts to his side, hugging the pillow as he faces the windows. Ryan walks around the bed and sits on the floor, looking at Dylan’s face. His eyes are red, but he isn’t quite crying. 

Very carefully, Ryan moves to rest his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan works his shoulder a little but doesn’t shake him off. Ryan says, “What we did… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

Closing his eyes again, Dylan says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But I started it.” Dylan trips over the words, hiccups once and has to pause to regain himself. “I don’t know why I—it’s like I can’t control how I feel about you anymore.” He sniffs. “I don’t want you to say you hate me.”

The words stun Ryan. 

“I love you,” he says. That’s a no-brainer. “Loved you before. I still love you right now. That’s not gonna change. It’s impossible.” 

For some reason, Dylan crumbles. Reassurance only makes him more upset. Ryan tries to rub his arm soothingly and promises him again. Doing anything other that loving Dylan is out of the question.

“I liked it,” Dylan confesses in a wet rush. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t hear you say—Ry, I’m so sorry.” He sniffs and dries his eyes with the pillowcase. “It’s bad.”

“Hey, no,” Ryan can’t resist pushing into Dylan’s space. He nudges at him until Dylan scoots back, making room for Ryan to toss the pillow and lie down beside him, overlapping their legs. “Nothing you could do is bad.”

“I kissed you. I even—”

“I let you.” Ryan touches his face, pets his hair and wipes at his eyes, gentle. “All of it. I let you, and I was—you felt it, right? I never said stop.”

It hurts, in a way, to say it out loud. They can’t walk it back now that it’s out there. There’s nothing to hide behind. 

“Still,” Dylan says.

Ryan touches his thumb to Dylan’s mouth, making him halt.

“I didn’t make you stop. I didn’t want to,” Ryan says. 

There’s no one to blame but themselves. Dylan made Ryan come, and Ryan made Dylan come, and maybe they crossed a line because they were emotional, but they both liked doing it. 

Deep down Ryan wants to make Dylan feel that good again. 

Dylan presses into Ryan’s touch and whimpers. “You’re like me?” he asks, a whisper.

Ryan nods. “I think so. Yeah. I think it’s both of us.”

“We’re not normal.” 

Ryan laughs sadly, his voice catching. “You’ve been able to teleport the both of us for years,” he tries joking. “We’ve never really been normal. We’re magic.”

Dylan nods against the bed, but he doesn’t look particularly happy about it. He sighs, and Ryan doesn’t know what to do except stay close.

Quiet reigns for long minutes, until Dylan eventually shuffles closer. He leans in slow and asks, “Can I try something?”

Ryan senses what’s coming before Dylan goes for it.

“Yeah,” he says, heartbeat kicking, and he parts his lips to meet Dylan’s kiss halfway. 

The door is still open. Someone could come up at any moment. They shouldn’t get carried away. They shouldn’t do this here at all, but Ryan is putty when it comes to Dylan. What he wants, Ryan always gives him, and it feels good. It breaks his heart how good it feels. He’s never simultaneously been shattered and made whole by a kiss before, but that’s what it feels like. He doesn’t know how else to think of Dylan’s mouth on his pulverizing everything Ryan knew about himself and leaving more space for Dylan to fill and conquer.

Dylan moans against Ryan’s lips, and Ryan craves more of that sound. He wants more of Dylan’s body, uncaring that they’re both tearing up now, terrified. 

Abruptly, Dylan breaks away to breathe. Ryan’s chest heaves, sucking in air. Dylan darts in to kiss his cheek and then finds his hand, interlocking their fingers. He asks, “Okay,” and exhales. “Still in?”

Ryan’s scared of what this means and still hurtling toward it. It’s like jumping into an abyss without knowing where they’ll land when they come back out. 

“I’m in,” he says. 

He’s pretty sure there’s nowhere Dylan could go that he wouldn’t follow. 

 

 

**Epilogue**

On Tuesday, Ryan gets to briefly say hi to Dylan, Alex and two other guys who’ve come with them to watch the Rangers play the Hurricanes. The next night, Dylan coordinates it so that Ryan and Vlad can meet more of the Blackhawks for dinner at one of Dylan’s favorite restaurants in New York. 

“I remember the first time you and John took me here,” he says. “I thought I was in heaven.”

“Soon you’ll rival them,” Toews says, giving Dylan a joking nudge.

Dylan scoffs but says, “He’s trying to teach me to cook.”

“It’s pretty scary,” Alex adds and giggles when Dylan glares at him, all mock offended.

“It’s about time,” Ryan says. “Now that you don’t have Merkley cooking all your food for you.” 

“And he can’t mooch off me forever,” Alex says. He rests his chin on Dylan shoulder for a second and adds, “As much as I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if it’s still mutual after today.” He twists enough to butt Alex’s head with his own.

Toews dismisses all the chirping and says, “He’s not that bad. I’m getting more of my little towers installed. We’re doing vegetables now.”

“Oh, yeah, big produce guy,” Murphy chimes in. Ryan laughs along as they all joke about turning Dylan into a city-dwelling vertical farmer, just like his captain. 

They’re a cool group of guys, Perlini, Seabrook and Hayden all joining for the night out too. Unsurprisingly, Dylan’s made a bunch of friends on his new team already, and Ryan likes being able to see him among his new pack, how settled he looks. Thriving. 

Dylan sneaks and grabs Ryan’s hand under the table at one point, gripping until Ryan looks over at him. He raises his eyebrows, a silent question. Ryan smiles back at him, approval given. 

He only ever wants Dylan to be happy. 

At the end of the night, they play credit card roulette but Toews makes all the draws and basically rigs it so that he gets stuck with the bill. “Guess it’s on me tonight, boys,” he announces, but he signs the check without any complaints, grinning the whole time. 

“Nice eating with you, Ryan. Vlad,” he says outside. 

Everybody shakes hands or hugs, and most of the Chicago crew starts back toward their hotel. Dylan and Alex walk in the same direction as Ryan and Vlad for a while, Alex saying, “Dylan wants to go to some candy place he says he always goes after.”

“Yeah, where is it? Right up here?” Dylan asks. 

Ryan points. He knows Dylan’s routine. “Left.” 

“Thanks.” Dylan comes to a stop at the street corner where they’re going to separate and smiles at Ryan and Vlad. “Thanks for coming out, too.” He looks to Ryan. “Call you later?”

“Of course.” 

He hugs Dylan, then Alex, and they dash across the street before the light changes on them. Ryan and Vlad catch the subway a few blocks up, Vlad exiting one stop earlier than Ryan. Once he’s home, Ryan takes a quick shower and gets comfortable, trying to enjoy a quiet evening before they have another game tomorrow.

Being back in New York still feels surreal some days. The Rangers and Islanders rosters aren’t exactly the same, Ryan isn’t living in the same apartment, and of course having no John around is a huge difference, but some nights Ryan still catches himself looking out the window and feeling almost like Edmonton was a prolonged dream. 

His phone vibrating pulls him out of his reverie. Dylan’s text reads, “Back at the hotel.” 

“I’m home,” Ryan types and considers sending a photo of his living room, but Dylan got to stop by briefly after the Winter Classic. He should remember what it looks like. 

His bet proves correct less than a minute later, when Dylan says, “Look out behind you.”

Ryan turns around smiling. 

“He’s here. He’s all candied out.”

“Definitely in the middle of a sugar rush,” Dylan says, draping his arms over Ryan’s shoulders as they close the space between them. Ryan catches Dylan around his waist, hugging him loosely and looking up to maintain eye contact. “Hello.”

“Hey there,” Ryan says. 

“I’m glad you came to dinner.” Dylan sighs happily, but then his eyes narrow. “What do you think? Did you like the boys?”

“They’re fun.” Ryan’s not really hard to please when it comes to Dylan’s teammates. “If they like you, I like them.”

“I like _you_ ,” Dylan says, disgustingly dorky. He drops his head and catches Ryan’s mouth, granting him a sweet kiss. 

Ryan hums into it, content, but when they split, he says, “What about Alex, though? You two are kind of handsy.” 

Laughing, Dylan says, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Brinks.” 

“You did hook up with him once.”

“Years ago!” Dylan pinches Ryan’s arm, sticking his tongue out when Ryan hisses. “He’s still with the same girl too, and they’re even grosser about each other than ever. You know that.”

“Mm, I guess so,” Ryan says, pretending to be skeptical. Dylan’s approach to convincing him is more kissing. He guides them back to the couch and pushes Ryan down, climbing into his lap and planting his hands on the back as they make out, hips rocking to chase after friction. 

Ryan’s dick gets curious right away. He slides his hands underneath Dylan’s shirt, encouraging Dylan to shrug off his coat and then let Ryan push his sweater and shirt over his head. Dylan lets Ryan get him half-naked in no time. It’s the kind of enthusiasm he’s grateful for every time they do this. 

Ryan drops his hand down, palming Dylan’s cock through his pants, really feeling out how hard he is. “See?” Dylan says. “I’m pretty invested in what’s going on here.”

“I believe you,” Ryan says, though he hadn’t actually doubted it. 

Dylan kisses Ryan one more time, and then slides down his body, sitting on his knees on the floor and tugging Ryan’s shorts down. When he looks up, his eyes glitter in the light thanks to the tableside lamp. They’re just like that all the time, Ryan thinks a little nonsensically, as Dylan licks his lips and asks, “So, you’re still in?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says and swallows. “No question.” Always. 

Dylan kisses Ryan’s knee, impossibly sweet, and leans over to start sucking. Resting a hand over Dylan’s hair, Ryan weathers the wet, soft feel of Dylan’s mouth. His fists his other hand in the couch cushion, clinging until Dylan hooks Ryan’s fingers in his own and holds on like a reminder that he won’t let Ryan slip away.


End file.
